Part 9

When Joe's mother died in Troy, he went up to attend the funeral. On his return he stayed a few days in Lorona--a little place already mentioned. It was without railway connections and lay to the east of Mona, along the Highway. He had passed through the latter place afoot, late at night, and had walked the ten miles to Lorona. His sister lived there in service, also his sweetheart Jennie. Naturally, he did not pass it by.

He had left very early one morning to go back to New York and had cut across country from the Highway on the east of Mona, coming around by the hill and the pond, in front of the Mansion, to River Road. He had arrived at the Corners in time to see a milkman pick up a gentleman on the road and drive with him into the town. Joe wanted to get back to New York early and begin work, for he had been absent a week. He was to catch the seven o'clock train, so he had abundance of time, as he could tell by the sun.

He started down the hill slowly, but took the woods along the north side of the Highway; he was fond of the woods and he knew the way--he had travelled it on previous visits. Just after he entered among the trees he heard a shot, followed by a groan--on the road, he thought--a little way above him. He trembled and stood still, then his courage manifested itself, and he crept cautiously to the roadside, which was hidden below by a few feet of embankment. What he saw paralyzed him! A man was lying in the road, and a little lower down on this side, not a hundred feet from himself, stood another in full view, with a smoking revolver in his hand. Instantly the negro understood. A murder--and _he_ was a _witness_! He did nothing--waited. To have shouted would have been to invite death. But he kept his eyes open.

"I'se the only witness. I must look at him good," he thought. The man's back was partly turned, but Joe took in all that he could at that distance, and saw him retreat after a moment into the woods. Then he grew frightened. The assassin was not far from him, but, fortunately, going deeper into the woods, and down toward the stony glade below.

Did the negro run? No. He gathered a couple of good-sized stones and followed. He thought the man on the road was dead; and he saw the other one going down into the gully to cross the small stream at the bottom. "Good!" he thought; "I'll follow him. If he sees me now, and comes after me, I can run a long way before he can climb that hill."

The assassin was picking his way--carefully--until he came to the rocky bottom. He wanted to cross the stream where a large flat rock gave an invitation for stepping. He had followed the stony formation carefully, avoiding the earth; he did not wish to leave marks to be traced.

Now, at this moment the negro became conscious of a new danger; he was near the scene of the crime alone, and if found, he would be suspected of having done it. So he looked about for a moment, and then decided to run back to Lorona and his people. He was growing scared. Who could blame him? He saw the murderer stoop down right below him, deep in the gully; and the negro, obeying a sudden impulse, swung one arm and hurled a stone straight at him. It struck the fugitive on the shoulder, turning him half around; and he broke into a run, full tilt, for the brook and the stepping-stone. Joe had not seen the murderer's face, but he told us that the man's chest was protected only by an undershirt. It was a chilly morning, and the fact had impressed him afterward as curious. He watched, and saw the assassin take the brook like a frightened stag, landing first on the rock in the centre, then on the other side. As he stepped on the rock in the middle of the stream, the boy saw something fall from his waist--something red. It fell into the water.

"I'd like to know what that is," he thought; "but I'd better _skip_." Then horror took possession of him; he crossed the road quickly and dashed into the Mark property. Then he ran to River Road and the bridge, up the incline on the other side of the pond, and into the fields beyond. On he went until Mona was passed; then he sat down in a little patch of wood and thought.

He was sure nobody had seen him except a farmer in the distance, too far away to know he was a negro. He was innocent, and perhaps he had better wait and see the police. Had he done so then and there, all would have been solved sooner than it was; but, poor boy, he had no one to advise him and he was alone with a terrible secret. He had done well; he could identify the murderer perhaps; his was a great responsibility.

He stayed around, and from afar witnessed the crowds of the morning. In the afternoon he sneaked into town, hungry and worn and terribly cold. When he saw the people gathering in the court-room, curiosity conquered. He listened with all his soul, and made up his mind to go in and tell what he knew.

He saw Oakes come forward to give his testimony, and his heart beat fast and furious. He felt ill--the cold sweat poured from him as he heard; but he remained, entranced. He was going to tell all, for surely that tall fellow--Clark, they were calling him,--was the great detective Oakes; he had shined his shoes many times at the stand on Broadway before he went up-town. How peculiar that they didn't seem to know him! Then intelligence came, and he said to himself: "These people don't know him because he does not want them to." Joe did not understand all that had been said, but he knew things were uncanny and that this man Oakes was playing a game.

Suddenly had come the statement of Oakes about the arms, and the tension became too great. He cried out and ran, like the fleet-footed boy that he was, for Lorona.

There he told nothing, except that he had missed the train. His friends gave him food--the murder story was yet vague in the little village--and then he dashed on for New York. He shook the dust from his clothes and, catching a train miles down the line, arrived safely in town. He was far away from Mona at last, but he must see Mr. Elliott, his good friend, and tell him all that he could.

As the negro finished his story he looked around, and partially recovered from the state of ecstasy into which the recitation had thrown him. His eyes were rolling and shifting, his dark skin had that peculiar ashen color that comes to the negro under stress of great excitement.

Dr. Moore arose and walked to the boy, and, placing his hands on his wrist, said reassuringly: "Good boy, Joe! you are a brave fellow."

Oakes handed him a drink of brandy--he needed it--and then we all joined in praising him. He soon recovered himself, and then Oakes took up his position beside him again.

"Now, Joe, what did the murderer drop when he jumped over the stream from the rock?"

"I dunno, Master Oakes--but it was a banana, I think."

"What!" said Hallen; "a banana?"

The negro looked worried.

"Yes, it did look like one of dose red, white, spotted cloths wat de niggers down South wear on their heads."

We all laughed.

"Oh, a bandana handkerchief, Joe."

And Joe laughed also, in relief.

"And now," continued Oakes, "what did it do? Did it float away?"

The boy thought a moment, then his quick brain came to his aid.

"No, no, Master Oakes; it splashed, sure enough it did. It went down--so help me Gawd!"

"Good!" said Oakes. "It contained something heavy, then. Now, Joe," he continued, slowly and clearly, "tell me, when you heard the evidence that the murderer was the man with a mark on his arm, why did you say, 'Oh, Gawd!' and run away?"

We all felt uneasy--the question was so unexpected, to some of us at least.

The negro hesitated, stammered, and lurched forward in his chair. Great beads of perspiration stood out on his brow and on the back of his hands. Oakes was behind him, and in a caressing way slid his left arm across the boy's chest. We divined instantly that that arm was ready to shoot up around the boy's neck for a strangle hold.

Joe tried to speak, but could not. I saw Hallen prepare for a spring, and Martin edge toward the door. Dr. Moore's breathing came deep and fast, and I began to feel like shouting aloud. What did it mean?

"Come! Speak, boy, speak!" said Oakes.

No answer.

Then Oakes stooped forward and said loudly enough for us all to hear, but right in the negro's ear: "Boy, you ran because _you_ have a scar on your left arm!"

We were on our feet in an instant.

"The murderer," we cried.

The negro made a frantic effort to rise, but the arm closed on his neck and Oakes's right hand came down on his right wrist.

Joe's left hand went to the arm at his neck, but he was powerless.

In a voice as firm as a rock, clear and emotionless, Oakes cried out: "Don't move, boy! Don't try to run."

And then he said to us: "This boy is _not_ the murderer; he is only a scared, unfortunate negro, and I will prove it."

The meaning of the words came to the boy gradually, and he became limp in the chair. Oakes relaxed his hold.

"Now, boy, if you try to run, we will bore you," and Chief Hallen drew his revolver and put it before him on the table.

"Now, Joe, show us your arm!" commanded Oakes.

The negro arose staggering, and took off his outer garment and his shirt. There, on his left arm, was a large irregular birthmark, blue and vicious-looking.

Oakes looked at it. "Gentlemen, this boy is a victim of circumstances. This is no cross, but the coincidence of a mark on the left arm has scared him nearly to death. That, in my opinion, is why he was afraid, and why he acted so peculiarly."

This was said deliberately, and with emphasis.

The negro fell on his knees. "Oh, Gawd! Oh, Mr. Oakes! Dat is it. Dat is it. I never done any murder. No! no! _no!_" and he burst into racking sobs. The strain was terrible. Dowd opened a window.

Hallen spoke. "How are you to prove his innocence, Mr. Oakes, as you said?"

There was a slight element of doubt in the question.

"Get up, boy," said Oakes; "get up." And turning to us, the cool man looked long at us all, then said: "The evidence showed conclusively that the weapon used was a heavy one, of 45-calibre probably--a revolver in all likelihood, and fired from a distance of about one hundred and fifty feet. That means a good shot. Now, this boy is right-handed, as you have noticed, but he could not use his right hand to shoot with, for the first two fingers have been amputated near the ends. Plenty of loss to preclude good pistol shooting!

"To have used such a weapon with the left hand, and with such accuracy, is out of the question save for a fancy shot. If this boy could shoot like that, he would not be boot-blacking for a living.

"Again, he has not noticeably strong arms, nor a wrist powerful enough to handle a heavy weapon properly. The boy is innocent--in my opinion."

"Oakes, you are a demon," said Hallen.

"Oh, no, I hope not; only I hate to see mistakes made too often. Poor devil!"

And Oakes patted the boy on the back.

With a pathetic, dog-like expression, sobbing with joy, the befriended negro seized the man's right hand and, kneeling, showered kisses upon it.

_CHAPTER XVII_

_Checkmated_

The negro was led away. He was in better spirits now, and smiling as only a negro can. That extraordinary genius--the mystic Oakes--had, by a process of reasoning that Joe himself was able to follow, not only cleared him of suspicion, but made a _hero_ of him. The innate vanity of the race was reacting on the boy, and coming to the rescue of his nervous system, recently so severely strained.

When he had gone, Oakes turned to us and, interrupting our exclamations, remarked:

"Now that we are all here together, it would be wise perhaps briefly to review what clues we have obtained and their probable significance."

We all assented to this suggestion, and by tacit consent Quintus Oakes began:

"First, we have found that the _cartridge picked up_ in the cellar, and evidently dropped by the man in the robe, _is of the same pattern as the old ones in the pouch upstairs_.

"They all belong to the old revolver which was taken away from its place--and for which another was substituted since my first visit here. With regard to its calibre (the important point), _that old revolver meets the requirements of our deductions about the weapon used to murder Mr. Mark_. Therefore we have a chain of evidence connecting my assailant in the cellar--the man in the robe--with the assassin.

"We know also that the revolver was fired not far from the hundred-and-fifty-foot distance; _the man was an excellent shot_, for you must consider the old style of weapon.

"He must have been _large_, or at least _strong in the wrist_, for a good shot with such a weapon cannot be made by a weak person."

I interrupted: "The murder of Smith was considered to be due to a pistol ball of large calibre. Could the same weapon have been used?"

"It could," said Oakes. "That one has been in the family for years. The style of the cartridges is somewhat similar to our modern ones, but they are very old, as we know by their appearance.

"Further," he continued, "in my opinion the 'woman story' connected with the Smith murder is based on a _man_ in a black _robe_. It may have been the same man who is at the bottom of these later mysteries--though we are to remember that when Mr. Mark was killed Joe saw no _robe_.

"In the annals of crime we find very few women doing murder in that way; it is a man's method.

"We must look then for a _strong-wristed_ man--a man who has also strong arms, and a _cross_ on the _left_ one; finally, a man with a knowledge of revolvers, and who has in his possession--or has had--a large, old-fashioned weapon and cartridges, and also a robe.

"And one thing more strikes me," added Oakes in a slow, deliberate voice, "he is a man _with a mania_--_an insane man_--always, or at intervals."

"Yes," said the doctor. "I had concluded so too, Oakes. The wearing of a robe--especially in a confined place like the wall space--the cutting out of a panel and the peculiar method of attack seem nonsensical and without proper reason. And the absence of provocation for those assaults, and for the murder of good men like Smith and Mark, point strongly to an unbalanced mind."

"Probably correct," Oakes replied. "And I should say that the _insanity is present at intervals only_."

"Mr. Oakes," said Chief Hallen then, "don't you think it advisable to investigate that story of the bandana handkerchief as soon as possible? Affairs in town may become pressing at any time, and we may be needed there."

"Yes, Chief, certainly. We should lose no time about it," said Oakes. Then he spoke to Martin; and the latter retired and presently returned with Joe.

The detective asked the boy if he would go and point out the stone from which the murderer was leaping when the handkerchief fell into the water. "You know it is nearly full moon and several of my men will go with you, and so will Mr. Martin."

The negro assented reluctantly, though bravely, for he was not devoid of superstition. Oakes called in four of his men and said:

"Go with Mr. Martin and Joe. Take lanterns, and find the handkerchief which is at the bottom of the stream if the boy is telling the truth, and the murderer has not recovered it. He did not notice it drop, did he, Joe?"

"No, Master Oakes; he just flew along and never looked round. He did not know where it dropped." The negro was using good English, and standing erect with a very important expression. He was innocent, and the central figure now. He realized that dignity was becoming. An educated boy of his race can show great self-control under such circumstances. Vanity--thou Goddess of Transformation!

While the searching party was gone, we spent the time discussing Mike's peculiarities--most of all his horseback ride in the moonlight, a curious departure for a hired man.

"This whole thing is unusual in the extreme, Stone. Since the night that you were escorted to the pond by Chief Hallen's men and there warned of impending danger, and your unknown friend was chased by the man lying in wait for you, I have had a net around Mike and Maloney and Cook, but with negative results," said Oakes.

"You see, Maloney and Cook go about their business in a quiet fashion, while Mike cannot be approached very well; the men report him as very shrewd and suspicious."

"Did you find out where Mike went on his horseback trip?"

"No, that is another curious thing. The Lorona man who brought him the horse says he has done it for a few days and received good pay. The horse was always returned promptly, once or twice by a boy; the other times by Mike himself."

"To have done that, Mike must have walked back from Lorona," said Hallen.

"No, he may have ridden part way. We found a man this evening who saw him take a team on the Lorona Highway and ride into Mona after dark."

"Where is Mike now?" I inquired.

"Since the episode of that horseback ride, witnessed by Dr. Moore and yourself, he has disappeared."

"Disappeared!"

"Yes, eluded all our men and never returned the horse."

"Skipped! Got away!" we cried in amazement.

"Yes, but he won't stay away long; he will come back."

We did not quite understand Oakes's speech, but there evidently was something behind it.

At this point, with his characteristic swiftness of movement, he lighted a cigar and began to smoke, offering the box to us all.

That meant that, as far as he was concerned, talking on business had ceased for a time. He was now recreating.

* * * * *

Elliott and I walked to a window and looked out upon the front walk and the road, conversing upon the manner in which Joe had been brought to Mona.

He had resisted the idea at first, but through the efforts of Martin and Elliott, and the promise of a reward, he had finally consented to the journey. They had explained to him that his refusal would defeat the ends of justice, and that escape was impossible; and when he realized that he had been unconsciously talking to watchers, and polishing their shoes in his innocence, he saw the folly of further remonstrance. Thus was the important evidence of the negro secured.

The strain of events was telling on us all. Quintus Oakes showed his deep concern by a tendency to leave us and remain alone.

As Elliott and I were talking, he looked at the rolling hills beyond the pond and exclaimed:

"Look! Can I be mistaken, Mr. Stone? Look in the direction of Mona--away off on the plateau--is not that a horse?"

I followed his pointing and discovered in the moonlight the figure of a horse advancing rapidly over the blue-green fields, along the path that led to the bridge.

Oakes advanced to the window and gazed intently, shading his eyes with his hands. On the crest of the hill that dipped to the pond the horse soon stood out clearly against the dark blue of the sky. We could see a figure which had lain low on his neck rise and sit straight in the saddle, then flash a light.

From near the road, on our side of the pond, came an answering light; a man stood there and exchanged signals with the horseman.

The rider was moving his arms rapidly, and with them the light. The other was answering in a similar manner.

Oakes remained quiet, and we all gathered at the window about him.

"What is it?" I asked.

He turned and said to me: "Here, write as I read."

I took an envelope and pencil from my pocket and wrote as Oakes deciphered the signals.

"A message from Mona," he cried. "Quick!"

Then he read the letters as they appeared:

"Discovered. Skinner has extra out. Pronounces me false; says Hallen has tricked the town. Beware of Skinner. Tell Hallen to look out. Am off for New York."

Then came a long wave over the head, and the horseman dashed back toward Lorona.

We detected another horseman at a little distance, who joined him; they rapidly disappeared together.

"Excellent!" exclaimed Oakes. "He has done his duty well."

We saw the man on this side run post haste for the Mansion. As he rushed up the steps, Oakes met him. "All right, boy! I saw the signals myself." Then to us he said: "Quintus Oakes the false is discovered. That was he; he came to warn us."

"Then Skinner has caught on, confound him," said Dowd, and we all silently assented.

Oakes paced the room slowly. "Boys, we have been unexpectedly checked. The enemy has a strong hand: there is trouble ahead."

"Yes, there is that," retorted the vigorous Hallen. "I must get away to headquarters, gentlemen!"

"Correct!" answered Oakes; "and we will go with you, Chief. If trouble is coming, we will be useless here."

With one accord we prepared to depart for Mona immediately. The carriage was brought to the door and saddle-horses also.

Then we waited anxiously for the return of Martin's party. We were not long delayed. A commotion in the hall was heard, and in stepped Joe and Martin, followed by the men. Oakes's assistant advanced and laid a red handkerchief, dotted with white spots, upon the table. It was wet and heavy, and knotted by its four corners so as to form a pouch.

"We found it, sir, in about two feet of water, partly covered with sand. Its weight was gradually sinking it into the bottom."

Joe laughed hysterically and lapsed into negro dialect: "See, Mars Oakes! see, boss! I dun tole you the truth."

Oakes seized the handkerchief, and we all looked inside. It contained a few large cartridges.

"They match the one I found in the cellar, and those of the old revolver," said Oakes. "The man of the Mansion mysteries and assaults _is_ the murderer of Mr. Mark."

We were intensely excited as we stood there viewing the evidence that was so conclusive. Not one of us made a remark, but the deep breathing of some and the pale faces of others showed the interest that was felt by one and all.

Oakes discovered on one end of the handkerchief the initial "S," and we all studied its appearance closely. Then Oakes asked Hallen if such handkerchiefs were unusual in Mona.

"No, not at all; there are hundreds of them sold here, especially to the laborers on the water-works--the Italians and Poles," answered the Chief.

"It is a very peculiar 'S,'" said Oakes, as he folded the handkerchief and put it in his pocket, giving the cartridges to Martin. He said nothing more, but seemed serious and thoughtful, as usual. And then we set out all together on a wild drive to police headquarters.

Despite the lateness of the hour, the crowds were increasing. The square, with the hotel on one side and headquarters on the other, was the centre of a vicious body of men, pushing, struggling and forcing its way along, and pausing now and again to surge around headquarters. We could all see that Hallen was to have his hands full.

"I should like to see Skinner very much," remarked Oakes in a sarcastic vein.

"I should like to see his arms," said Moore; "they might be interesting."

Oakes looked at the speaker with one of his undefinable expressions. We could not tell whether the shot had been a true one or not.

_CHAPTER XVIII_

_Misadventures_

Toward morning the crowd thinned. The street grew more quiet, although the very air still throbbed with action, even as the heart-strokes within us. Quickly as events had come, we were yet only in the midst of our experiences.

The clock in the Chief's room was striking three, and drowsiness was stealing over me, as over the outside world, when a knock came at the front door and Hallen admitted a man, weary-eyed and panting. I recognized him as one of the men who had been masquerading about the Mansion as a carpenter. He was dressed in a heavy jersey without a coat, and was evidently suffering from fatigue.

He walked over to Oakes and spoke to him in a low voice. The detective asked a question or two, and turning looked at Dr. Moore, asleep in a chair, fagged out, then at me. I was wide awake, anticipating more trouble. "Stone," said he, "are you good for a ride with me on horseback? We have found something important."